


What Do I Know?

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, based on ANOTHER song but hey its happy this time, this is a sort of collab/challenge thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: It's almost comical, the way their friendship starts and blooms, slowly spinning out into a little bit more.[Alternatively: Music Is The Way To Your Heart]





	What Do I Know?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [What Do I Know? by Ed Sheeran](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B9J3lEyffA)
> 
> This is part of a fic challenge thing with [Mika](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpaints/pseuds/oilpaints), where we write a fic based on the same song! (Because when I base a fic on a song, I use the lyrics as inspiration and the melody as the 'atmosphere/feeling', but they said it's different for them, so here is the fic as comparison!)
> 
> Here's a [link](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10626081) to their fic!

The sun is barely up, but he is out the door, bag and guitar case in hand. He’s trying a new street today, just outside the subway of the business district, and while he has little hope that it would gain him much cash, he hopes that someone will stop to listen.

Businesspeople are too caught up in their own world, sometimes.

It’s still early when he gets there, so he sits on the steps and chews on his bun, tossing crumbs to the pigeons who come to investigate. They peck at his feet, cooing and cocking their heads, and he smiles.

Life isn’t that hard, if you know where to look for happiness.

He pulls out his guitar and strums a few chords, tapping his foot and crooning a made-up melody for the pigeons. They look strangely at him and keep pecking for crumbs, flapping away when there are none left.

He smiles at their retreat and begins setting up, laying the guitar case down for coins and positioning his bag within sight.

He starts with a simple song, a warm up, something to get his voice going, releasing a soft tune to the early hour and cold buildings.

The sun is beginning to light the scene, touching the drab signs and reflecting off glass. It softens the hard angles and brings a little more life to the place, and he can’t help the lilt of joy in his song.

He loves mornings, and the space before others arrive.

It is two songs, three, before the early birds arrive, the ones who haven’t finished their work, those who are itching for a promotion. They barely pay attention to him, but their footsteps slow, and his eyes crinkle.

They may not know, but even a subconscious acknowledgement of his song could make their day a little brighter.

He doesn’t need to talk to them to lift their mood. That’s the power of music.

The crowd slowly thickens, people on their cell phones, people hurried eating their breakfast on the go. There are those who look like zombies, barely awake, and there are those who look grimly determined to start their day.

Their footsteps, their bustle, it may be enough to drown him out, since he doesn’t have a microphone, but he keeps singing anyway, losing himself in the melody and in the rhythmic motions of his hands.

He’s not sure how long it is before someone slows to listen, tossing some small change in his case. He dips his head in acknowledgement, smiling around the words to convey his thanks.

The hour wears on, his song changing several times, and he watches the people coming in for work, people rushing to a meeting. Several times he makes eye contact with one person, but they quickly look away. It doesn’t bother him when they do that, because he knows that they think they’ll be obligated to give him something. He wants to tell them that it doesn’t, but he can’t, so he lets the song float after them, and hope that they can find some solace in that.

He remembers when he just started singing on the streets, the way his friends looked at him, asked him if he was crazy.

 _I’m not crazy_ , he told them then. _I can’t change the world in any way, I’m not powerful enough. But maybe this, this small thing, maybe it will be enough._

He still laughs every time he thinks about _why_ he’s doing this.

Maybe he’s just a little bit crazy.

But if it helps someone out, it’s worth it.

After all, just a little snowball can start an avalanche.

\-----

He looks out of the lobby and groans.

He’s there again. The street performer.

How long has it been? A week, two? The man is always there in the morning, arriving even before he does, and he thinks he comes plenty early to work.

He wonders what the heck he’s doing, because he never seems to be without a smile, never seems to be without a lively song that can pick his mood up even on the dreariest of days.

Okay, maybe he’s just a little pre-occupied with this man, but who could blame him? He is startlingly attractive, sings well, never seems bothered by anything.

And he never seems to have lunch, which is exactly why he is here.

He takes a deep breath and walks towards the man, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

\-----

“Hey.”

He looks up and smiles in greeting. The man has caught him at a good time – he’s between songs, stopping for a bit of water – so he doesn’t mind talking. “Hey.”

“Um, here.” A takeaway box is held out to him, and he looks at it curiously, before turning that same questioning gaze on the man.

The other huffs and steps forward, close enough that the box is between them, and he has no choice but to take it before it bumps into him. “You never seem to eat lunch, so – here. And, um,” his eyes shift, his mouth hardening, “Your singing is really good.”

“Oh – thank you.” He cradles the box carefully – it’s still warm – and bows. “You didn’t have to, it’s my pleasure to be singing for the crowds.”

The businessman’s brow furrows. “Aren’t you doing this for money?”

He snorts. “No. I have a different sort of goal in mind. The money is a bonus.”

“Oh.” The man looks lost, and suddenly looks like he’d rather be elsewhere. “Uh, well, I’ve got to get back to the office. See you around.”

He walks off so quickly that he barely has the time to call “Thank you again!” after him, but he thinks he sees a slight nod before his copper-tinged hair disappears into the thickening crowd.

He looks at the takeaway box in his hands and smiles.

Maybe it would be all right to stop for lunch.

\-----

He gets back to his work cubicle and promptly buries his face in his hands, biting his lip to stop from screaming.

The man was too nice. Weird, but nice.

He needs to go back tomorrow, and bring him lunch again.

\-----

The man’s back – or rather, he can see him hurrying to work.

He looks up at the sky – it can’t be later than eight, but he’s rushing like the hounds of hell are after him.

He shrugs to himself and switches to a softer song, hoping that the music would somehow reach and encourage him.

\-----

He’s done. Finished. He can’t believe he rushed his morning – and afternoon – tasks for this, just so he could run down and chat with the street performer.

He must be crazy.

As he runs past to the lift lobby, he hears a colleague call, “Oi, where’s the fire?”

He turns to glare at the man – Yamagata, he thinks – and bows sharply. “None of your business, senpai. Excuse me.”

He thinks he hears the other laugh as he enters the lift, and jabs the button for the first floor a little too hard.

(He may be crazy.)

\-----

The crowds are a little less busy today, and he clearly sees when the nice businessman comes walking towards him, a plastic bag swinging from his hand. He smiles at the sight but finishes up his song, lifting the guitar strap over his head when he’s done. “Hello.”

“Hello.” The man holds out a takeaway box, and as he takes it, he asks, “May I join you? I'm not interested in eating with my colleagues.”

“Sure.” He takes a seat on the steps, and the man sits with him. A little breeze ruffles their hair, pushing the man’s bangs across his face, and he’s startled at the thought that crosses his mind.

“Thank you,” is what he says instead, to cover up the direction his thoughts went in – as if the man could really know what he was thinking.

The man glances at him, chopsticks in his mouth, and nods. “It’s no problem at all, um…?”

“Semi,” he offers, opening his box and breaking the chopsticks. “Semi Eita.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Shirabu Kenjirou.” The man looks away quickly, lifting a piece of fish to his mouth, and he’s a little confused, a little amused.

“Nice to meet you. Thank you again, Shirabu-san.”

“No need for thanks, I mean it. You’re out here for so many hours, you ought to take care of yourself.”

He shrugs a little. “I usually leave around this time, maybe a little later. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Shirabu doesn’t respond, so he follows his lead and eats in silence, watching the people pass by.

He doesn’t realise he’s humming until he hears a quiet murmur of “I know that song”.

He looks over in surprise – it’s an old song, but one of his favourites – and finds his gaze calmly returned, as if daring him to say something.

“I could sing it next,” he smiles. “As thanks for lunch.”

Shirabu looks away but nods, and it’s the tiny quirk at the corner of his lips that tells him that it’s alright to do so.

He digs into the rest of his food with gusto, already playing the chords in his mind.

\-----

It becomes routine after that, to have lunch together, sometimes in silence, sometimes with a bit of conversation. It’s through these conversations that he learns that Semi comes from old money, that his brother’s taking over the business, so he doesn’t have to, and that he doesn’t even have a full university degree because his parents never forced him to.

“Sounds nice, to be able to do whatever you want,” he comments, maybe a little bitterly, but Semi has already picked up on it, and nudges his knee with his.

“It’s not so nice when I try to find a job and no one wants to take me,” he admits. “But that’s not what I’m trying to do, anyway.”

“No?” He’s intrigued. “What _are_ you doing this for, then?”

Semi smiles around his food. “You’ll laugh.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll tell you anyway.” He takes a deep breath, and he leans forward, expectant.

“I’m trying to bring others a little bit of happiness through my singing. Subconsciously, you might feel a little less sad after a happy song – you’re laughing.”

“No, I’m not,” he snickers, clapping a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. But his eyes are still smiling, mirth lighting them, and Semi counts that as a win.

“Life’s not all about work, you know,” he tells him, but Shirabu’s still giggling too hard to notice. Semi rolls his eyes and continues – if he won’t listen, that’s his problem.

“You business people are always worrying about this and that – the stock market, how much work you can squeeze in, what more you can do to fatten your portfolio. I think it’s rubbish,” he says solemnly, “Because there’s so much more to life than just mindless, numbing work. An act of kindness could really turn someone’s day around.”

“I’m sure.”

“But you do,” he smiles, and places his empty takeaway box in the plastic bag between them. “You brought me lunch, and that made my day a little brighter.”

Shirabu stares at him, slack-jawed, and slowly turns several shades darker.

Semi grins but turns to face the front, watching people walk by, heads down, preoccupied in their phones, in the little bubble they erect around themselves.

“But,” he says, and Shirabu peeks up at him, “What do I know?

“I’m nobody.”

\-----

He peers out of his office window, sighing at the massive crowd.

_Demonstrators._

_I hope Semi-san’s not out there._

He hears someone come stand beside him, and looks up to see Kawanishi frowning at the masses. “Don’t they have anything better to do?”

“Probably not. But they think they can get change this way, so who are we to stop them?”

“Hmm.”

He turns back to the crowds, worrying at his lip. _Is it too early to go out for lunch?_

“If you finished your morning’s work, yes, you can go out for lunch.”

His head snaps up and he glares at Kawanishi, who only shrugs. “You’re easy to read. Besides, the whole office has seen you talking and having lunch with that guy, why do you care?”

He sighs and presses his forehead to the glass, watching the crowd below pulse and swell. “I don’t know.”

_I think I like him too much._

\-----

He searches everywhere, but doesn’t find him, and it gives him an odd sense of relief.

He turns back towards the office, only to smack into someone, and apologises profusely as he backs away.

A hand catches his wrist, and he stares at it for a long moment – he knows this hand. Looking up, hazel meets amused cocoa, and he feels his mouth open in a gape.

“Hello.” Semi begins, but he cuts him off, his words gushing relief.

“You weren’t in front of the office today.”

“No, I saw the crowds, and didn’t want to risk it. I don’t want to be caught up in that.”

“Good,” he says, sagging. “Those people are nuts.”

“That depends on what your definition of ‘nuts’ is.” Semi releases him and walks away, turning to glance over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll tell you on the way. We don’t want to be swept away by that.”

He follows warily, but Semi grabs his hand and tugs him along, dragging him to a small café and ordering. While their order is being processed, he turns to him, holding up a butter knife. “What do you see?”

He raises his eyebrows. _You’ve got to be kidding me._ “A knife.”

Semi rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. In the context of the knife, what do you see?”

“I don’t know, what am I supposed to be seeing?”

The ash blond sighs and grabs his hand, running his fingers lightly over the blade. “What do you feel?”

“It’s cold.”

“Oh, for goodness–” He sighs heavily, lifting the knife and pointing it at him. “The blade is thin.”

Well, he knew that. “Yes, and…?”

“You know what my father used to tell me? People are made up of love and hate – opposites that balance each other out.” He toys with the knife, eyes flicking up to meet his. “But the thing is, they need to remain in balance. And those people out there, they’ve tipped over to the ‘hate’ side of it.

“The balance between both is tricky,” he continues, “And so, so fine. Practically as thin as a blade. Some people have a little more of one or the other,” his eyes flick outside, “And sometimes it’s enough to make them do stupid things.”

“So,” he drags out, “You’re saying that those people are nuts because they’ve got a little too much hate in them.”

“Precisely.”

“But they don’t see it that way.”

“No, they don’t,” Semi muses, head on hand. “They think they’re doing the right thing, that by protesting, they’ll get the changes they want. But it’s so much more than that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of their food, and they thank the waiter, waiting till she’s gone to continue their conversation.

“Sometimes it’s hard to get what you want, and people might try to kill themselves just to get it. But there are so many more choices in life, and it’s a matter of doing one thing now, and waiting until what you want becomes available.”

He thinks about that – maybe it makes a bit of sense.

“So what would _you_ do, if you had something you wanted that badly?”

Semi sips his coffee, regarding him over the rim of his cup. He sets the cup down with a _clink_ , tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’d have a look at the circumstances before I jumped in. If there’s a chance that I might be able to succeed, I’d go for it.”

“And if not?”

“I’d wait.” He shrugs, waving it off as if it was nothing. “There are always little things in life – little happy things – if you know where to look.

“Sometimes, all the small things can distract you from the big thing, and keep you occupied until it’s time to get the big thing.

“And that’s all right.”

\-----

He turns on the radio that night, hears news and the outcome of the protest. It makes him a little sad that all these people were arrested for trying to do something they believe in, but the rest of him is rolling his eyes and commenting on how foolish it was anyway.

He switches to a music channel, and lets the song sweep him into its world, sheltering him for the moment.

\-----

“I’m getting a promotion.”

He sets his chopsticks down, grin splitting his face in a second. “That’s great! Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He looks down, copper hair hiding his eyes, but he can see the slight smile tugging at his lips. It makes him smile in return – he knows how he’s been itching for this promotion, knows how hard and long he’s been working for it.

“Hey.” The other looks up questioningly – he’s got a rice grain stuck to the corner of his mouth, and it’s oddly endearing. “I’ll treat you to dinner.”

He pauses, swallows, fixes him with an odd look. “Why?”

“A celebratory dinner of course.” Was that not obvious? “You’re changing the world, and this is the first step.”

Shirabu laughs. “I thought that was your job?”

“Well,” he begins, mischievousness lighting his eyes, “I do what I can out here, and influence you enough to do your part inside.”

“Oh, and that definitely works, because I am _such_ a social butterfly.”

“You have influence,” he points out. “And you just got promoted. That puts you in a place to change many minds.”

The businessman starts to argue, but stops short, thinking; as if his words have finally started to make sense. He smirks at him and picks his chopsticks back up, leaving him to marinate in his thoughts.

It is a long while before he speaks again, but in a voice so soft he almost misses it.

“I guess.”

(He doesn’t miss the note of wonder in it.)

\-----

“So, Shirabu. Any idea where you want to go for dinner?”

He pauses, looks up at the speaker curiously. “What?”

Yamagata sighs. “Celebratory dinner? With the department you’re going to abandon?”

“Oh.” His eyes stray back to his desktop, to the Post-It stuck there, and the music notes dotting its corners. “Um. I don’t know?”

“Well, let us know. It’s probably going to be next Friday, when we don’t have to worry about work the next day.” He claps him on the back and leaves with a grin.

He twists back to face his desktop, eyes absentmindedly tracing over the note.

The note, which reminds him of a similar celebration of a different nature, with someone of a different affiliation.

_Exit C of the station, 7.30pm. See you._

\-----

He’s almost late, because he had overrun a little, the lifts were too slow, he was too distracted and turned the wrong way when he got into the station. But he makes it with a minute to spare, though Semi looks extremely amused at his puffing.

“Not– A– Word.”

“I guess where we’re going is a surprise, then.” The ash blond tilts his head in the direction of one of the gantries and he follows blindly, still trying to get his breathing under control.

It’s only when they’re on the platform and the announcement for the arriving train comes on that he thinks to ask, “Where _are_ we going?”

Semi smirks and points to a stop. “What’s your favourite kind of sushi?”

He nearly laughs at the way Shirabu lights up.

\-----

“This is quaint,” he comments as they slide into the booth. “How did you find it?”

Semi hands him a menu with a shrug. “You tend to find things when you’re hunting wildly for them.”

He looks at him over the top of the menu, his brows disappearing into his bangs. The ash blond huffs. “I like sushi, sue me.”

“I technically could–”

“Don’t be mean to the man who’s paying for your dinner.”

“You started it.”

“You little brat–”

Shirabu only smirks and turns to call a waiter, completely missing Semi’s exasperation.

They place their orders quickly, with a few side dishes to share, but the moment the waiter is out of sight, they are on to each other with condescending smirks.

“Shirasu-don?”

_“Tekka makki?”_

“Mine is actually sushi.”

“I like shirasu, and it’s _in season_.”

“But you couldn’t have picked something that is actually sushi.”

“You were doing enough of that for both of us.”

“I suppose this is where I thank you, for saving us from too much raw fish?”

“Agedashi tofu is nice, quit judging me–”

“Oh no, you started it, I’m never going to stop teasing you–”

To an outsider, their squabbling borders on insanity, on the brink of a fight. But in their little bubble, sparking eyes and bared teeth are just another expression of their camaraderie, of the way that their partnership works.

It would be a little odd to call it a friendship, because it is so much more, and so much less.

But in the warm lighting of the shop, sequestered in a little corner, surrounded by people who don’t know them – it’s not so hard to hide that fact at all.

\-----

They end up at a quay after their meal, leaving the bustle of the world behind them. It’s a quiet walk, spiced only by contentment, sprinkled with the _hush-hush_ of the waves.

It’s almost romantic, he thinks, as he watches the barest hint of moonlight play out over the ripples of water. It’s a crescent moon – the tiniest sliver hanging above their heads, the sky dotted with stars that managed to escape the glare of light pollution.

It’s almost peaceful, and he might be falling asleep on his feet – until his companion speaks.

“Thank you.”

He smiles a little, glances down the scant centimetres between them. “It’s my pleasure.”

His partner tosses his hair – in mild irritation, he notes – and glances up at him. “You’re always so nice.”

“Am I?” He says it mildly, because he’s sure he doesn’t come off that way – over time, their relationship has matured from cordial and sunny to exasperation and slight irritation. He is certain of his own feelings – he is fond, if not completely enamoured, by this odd businessman, who decided that he needed to eat properly, that first day they met. He is not sure how the other feels.

“Yes.” It’s a quiet admission, coupled with him looking down and away, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. Certainly, it is awkward, because that feels like a compliment, in that backhanded way of his. But it could also be nothing, because neither of them are particularly good at talking about emotions for very long.

They continue in silence, feet clicking against the pavement, the melody of the waves lulling them into a suspended moment.

He’s not sure when they stop – who stops who first is lost on him – but they lean against the railing, watching the boats bob, watching the waves rock them gently, gently.

“You know what you said, before?”

He thinks about it – but his thoughts are muddled, lulled into a semi-conscious state. He feels like he’s dreaming.

“Which thing? We talked about a lot.”

His partner huffs, and his posture collapses a little. It makes the light gleam off his hair that much more, making it glitter. “The one about me being promoted into a place of influence.”

“Oh, that.” He thinks he remembers it, and he finds it to still hold true. “What of it?”

He glances up, holding his gaze for some moments, head cocked like he’s scrutinising him. “You’re probably right.”

“I am?”

“Yeah.” He exhales deeply, shifts so that he’s leaning against his fist. “I’m moving out of my department, but I’ll be in charge of their overall work in future.”

He glances at him again, and he thinks he sees him smile, just a little. “I think I can make some changes to the overall work structure.”

“Yeah?” He moves, slides over slightly, just enough that their shoulders brush. It feels like there’s a secret to be shared, and he wants to be close enough to hear every word of it.

“Yeah.” He can hear the smile in his voice, the lilt of wonder as he hashes out his plan. “I can distribute work more evenly. Make them go home earlier. Tighten up regulations, straighten out rules so that they’re no longer doing work that is pointless. It’ll be more efficient, but they’ll also have more time for themselves. Time out of the office won’t be a luxury, it’ll be a reality.”

He can feel himself smiling wider with every word he speaks, and it makes him just a little surprised. When did he become so invested in their friendship?

“That sounds wonderful.”

“It would be,” he sighs, and leans on him, just a little. “It’s your fault, you know.”

“My fault?”

He doesn’t sound as bewildered as he ought to; he sounds more amused. But Shirabu laughs and leans against him a little more, his sigh wispy and wistful. “Your fault.”

He wants to ask what he has done – he thinks he knows – but his companion beats him to it. “You were right, about music influencing people. I think in some way, you’ve changed my outlook, and now, I can change others too.”

“But you’re going to help them. I don’t think that makes me the bad guy, in any way.”

He laughs again, a shaking thing that he can feel, from the places that they’re pressed together. “No. I guess not. I just like blaming you.”

“Oh…?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, turning to smile, seeming a little surprised that they’re so close. “It’s easier to blame you, because then I don’t have to feel like I do.”

He should be offended by that, he thinks, but he doesn’t feel much more than amusement. Maybe it’s because he’s so content, so on the brink of sleep. “Feel like what?”

His eyes traverse his face, slowly scanning him, lingering on some features, before he lets their eyes lock again. He leans in then, until they are nearly nose-to-nose, whispering, “I feel like maybe, I like you more than I should.”

_Oh._

His eyes slide half-closed, and he tries for a smirk. “If it’s any consolation, I am a lot fonder of you than I originally thought I was.”

His eyes light up a little, burning embers reflecting the street lamps’ light. “Would it kill you to admit that you like me?”

“Would it kill _you_?” He shoots back, and is rewarded by him pulling back, laughing.

“Touché.” He glances back, a grin touching his lips, before pressing against him again, hiding his face in his shoulder.

“But you know,” he says, voice muffled, “I do like you. Would you consider going out with me?”

He registers, dimly, that he is asking him out, but a lingering thought on his mind is _He is younger than me and_ doing the asking.

He must’ve been silent too long, because he hears a meek “Semi-san?”, and a man who suddenly would not look at or touch him.

“Yes.” He thinks he hears himself say it, reaches out to grasp his hand, because he is in a daze, and he needs it to be real. “Yes, and that’s not just a consideration.

“Yes, I’ll go out with you.”

Shirabu gapes at him, and even under the terrible light he can see him flush, and his hand is squeezed tightly. He thinks he ought to say something more, maybe _do_ something, but he is beaten to the punch.

“You sound like you were reacting to a proposal.”

He snaps back into himself just then, unable to help the embarrassed grumble that escapes. His companion – wait, boyfriend? – starts laughing, and then he is dealing with an armful of lean muscle, copper hair tucked against his neck.

“This is so embarrassing,” he hears, and his arms tighten around him, barking out a laugh of his own.

“You’re the embarrassing one,” he tells him. “Though I should’ve been the one to ask, not you.”

“Suck it up, Semi-san.” His voice is annoyingly smug, and he catches sight of the smirk on his face as he pulls away. “I can be better than you sometimes.”

He wants to retort, but can’t find the energy to.

 _He’s not wrong_ , he tells himself. _Sometimes, he_ can _be better._

_It’s not so bad, to not be in charge all the time._

\-----

They are at the station, on the train, and then almost at the stop where they part ways.

Time flies, even when you’re watching it that closely.

The train is almost empty – not many people are out so late, because it is a weekday, and everyone has work tomorrow. They are taking clear advantage of this, fingers loosely interlaced on their thighs, shoulders and sides pressed up against each other.

Sometimes, they don’t need words, letting their body language and trailing fingers speak for them. But sometimes, some words need to be spoken out loud.

“See you tomorrow?”

He nods shortly, before deciding against it, and shakes his head instead. “I can meet you for lunch, but I think… Tomorrow, I’ll start searching for a job.”

He can feel him looking at him in surprise, but he doesn’t expect the harshness in his voice when he asks, “Why?”

He smiles wryly to himself. _Why indeed?_

“Because it’s time to move on. I can’t be singing on the streets forever, but I can teach others to sing. There are always others out there, be it a child or a grown adult, who’s looking for their own brand and a way to express themselves. I can help with that.” He peeks at him, picks up his hand and squeezes it. “You’ve showed me that, too.”

“I don’t think I’ve done a good job of anything if I’m pulling you away from what you love doing.”

“You’re not,” he assures. “I’ll still be doing what I love, but this way, I’ll earn a bit more. Besides,” he smiles, “Even if I wasn’t doing this, it’s time to find a new place. I’ve done what I can for your side of the business district.”

He can feel him staring for a long while, but the train is slowing, and it is his stop.

In the end, he picks up their intertwined hands, kissing his knuckles softly, lips skimming skin gently. “Do what you like,” he tells him. “As long as it is a small thing you want to do, or the big thing. But don’t settle for less.”

He squeezes his hand tightly just before he lets go, a smile lifting his features. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Of course I do,” he steps away, moving towards the open doors. “I remember everything you tell me.

“And I believe whatever you do is the right thing.”

\-----

He steps off the train, but lingers, feet turning him to face the window. He can see him sitting there, back facing him, and whatever light that doesn’t reflect off the window gets tangled in his starlight hair.

The train doors begin to close then, and he lets himself soften, lets a little smile tilt his lips up.

\-----

You look curiously at the businessman, loitering for a little too long, feet bringing him to a standstill, though the stairs are right there. He is looking at the train, and you think you see his posture relax a little, and the tiniest of smiles lift his visage.

You hide a smile of your own. _A lover, perhaps._ It is so difficult to find, or even see, these days. Businesspeople are always so caught up in their world, they hardly have time for life, let alone love.

The man straightens as the train doors close, walks away as the train pulls out of the station. Your eyes follow him as he steps onto the escalator, and you see him looking at his hand, opening and closing it.

You turn back to face the front, inexplicable cheer lifting your heart.

It’s always good to see that someone else has realised that life isn’t all about work, and that there is always time to stop and smell the flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> Casual reminder to go check out [Mika's fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10626081) as well!


End file.
